Chapter 8
Every time he comes to see Rachel in her new apartment he's struck by how much more like her it is than the house she used to share with her now-ex. That house was over furnished, plush, a bit of a showpiece, and apparently it was Joe's style. Her apartment is a studied contrast – neat, modern, leather and metal and glass, neutral. He wouldn't describe it as comfortable or inviting, except that Rachel lives there and she's become a good friend and so she makes it that way. It's an arched eyebrow that greets him when she opens the door. He's careful about taking off his wet boots, leaves them on the mat, sits on a stool by the trendy breakfast counter and slouches down on his elbows. He's a bit damp.
"Coffee or beer?" she says, following him.
"Beer."
"Mm-hm."
She hangs his jacket in the bathroom over the tub to dry, tosses him a clean hand towel for his dripping hair, then opens the fridge and takes out two bottles. She slides them across the counter and watches him while he screws off the tops and slides one back. He takes a long drink.
"How's rehab going?" She says it so casually.
He coughs, chokes a bit on the mouthful, sets the bottle down and looks at his hands. "Uh, good."
"Tim, they called the office looking for you."
"Oh." He's caught, guilty, then defensive. "I was going. I got distracted."
"By what – a bar?"
"No, a girl."
The accusing eyebrow slips down to neutral and Rachel leans over from the opposite side of the counter, co-conspirator. "Tell me or I'll tell Art."
"I was coming here to tell you. You don't have to threaten me."
She ducks down behind the counter and comes back up with a bag of nacho chips. Tim opens the bag and fishes out a couple and stuffs them in his mouth. He's going in for seconds when she nudges him with a bowl. He obliges her, dumps the chips into it while she does the same with salsa. They settle on her couch with the bowls between them.
"So?"
"So, remember Cecilia Rose – Shawnee look-a-like?"
"From the hospital?"
Tim grimaces, recalling the inside of the building with a familiarity that bites. "Yeah."
"She's what – four?"
"Four next month, so I've been told. I took her mother to get stitched up today, 'bout the time I was supposed to be in rehab. Remember Emily Duncan?"
It's Rachel's turn to grimace and Tim sees the memory flash across her face – a scene in the office, she and Tim dealing with the tears while Raylan looked on, bewildered. It flashes and is gone. He chuckles. She shakes her head, chuckles with him.
"You wanted to ask her out too, didn't you? I remember you and Raylan going on about her." She pauses for a drink of beer, then finishes her thoughts, "Good thing you didn't."
"I did."
"Oh. Sorry."
"I wasn't invested, don't worry. I went around the next day. Raylan got to her before I did."
"Be happy. She's a bit psycho."
Tim grins, sharing the thought. "Yeah. She's nice enough, though. She's done me a few favors since – like taking Evelyn in today."
"And why would she be doing you favors?"
"'Cause I let her cry on my shoulder."
"Aw."
They both grin and then don't, and then Rachel returns the conversation to the point of Tim's visit.
"Stitches? What happened?"
"Her boyfriend…husband? I'm not sure which. It's not the first time."
"Oh."
"I took her to see Em so the locals wouldn't get on her."
"You might not be doing her a favor."
"Maybe not."
"You like her." Rachel says it like she's discovered something. "She doesn't seem your type."
"Why, because she's black?"
She huffs. "No." She smacks him with a backhand, knows that he's teasing her. "No! Because she's… I dunno. She seems so…nice."
"Nice? You can tell nice by looking? Could you teach me that?"
"I talked to her a few times. Her mother was in the hospital just down the hall from you."
He nods, files that admission under 'potential source of information,' then holds his hands up around his head, mocks a mass of hair. "Gotta love the 'fro."
They share another grin.
"She's got beautiful hair," says Rachel.
"Why don't you grow yours out? Can yours do that?" The hands make another attempt to outline Evelyn's hair.
"I'd like a promotion, thank you. I don't think the federal government is terribly fashion aware."
"It'd be worth it just to see the look on Art's face. I'll pay you to do it."
"Real funny from your privileged white boy vantage." Rachel goes to the kitchen for another beer for Tim, hands it to him with a question. "Just how much do you like her?"
"It's not like that. Anyway, it'd be stupid to get involved with her."
"Well then it's a sure thing you'll try. How is it that men are so moronic?"
He grants her a wry head tilt and she smiles like she's seeing an old friend after a long time apart.
"I just want to make sure she's all right." He wonders if that's true. "Cecilia Rose kept me amused in the hospital. Maybe I'd just like to do something back. She's a handful, that little tyrant."
"Uh-huh."
"Could've used her in my fire squad."
"Mmm."
"Might be an asset in an interrogation room. The Marshals Service should consider hiring her."
"Mm."
"I mean, you definitely want her on your side."
"Tim?"
"What?"
"You hungry?"
He thinks about the sandwich he just ate with the girls. "Are you?"
"Pizza from the corner? I'm starving."
"Sure."
As long as it's not crazy busy in the office, as long as nobody needs him, Art has given him the okay to sneak out after lunch and go play with whatever firearm he fancies. And that's exactly how Art says it.
"Shoot whatever suits your fancy, Tim. Make yourself happy. I want to smell the gunpowder on you, even after your shower tomorrow. You do shower, right?"
"Occasionally."
"That's what I thought."
He's bored with his new Glock – it's just like the old Glock – so today it's his registered backup he's chosen to shoot, a favorite handgun, his H&K compact.
The range is empty on a weekday, mid-afternoon – he goes to a private one rather than the local law enforcement range for just that reason. There's always somebody shooting at the police range, doesn't matter the time of day, and he doesn't feel like being sociable. He's not happy with his shooting and doesn't want to talk about it until he figures out what's wrong. He's hoping it's only a matter of strengthening his fingers, but he has doubts. He's been around shooters and shooting enough to suspect there's more to it. There's a head game that trumps the hand strength and the body positioning, and repetitive action, the cure-all for most shooting woes, won't help with that.
He buys a box of cheaper rounds than he'd carry on the job, rounds to throw away on a paper target. The kid working the counter does the bare minimum interacting then is back to his cell phone ignoring Tim even before he completes the credit card transaction. Tim rips off his receipt and pockets it, pushes the machine a half-assed half-inch back to the kid, then he walks to the farthest booth and loads a magazine and two spares and thinks about the mechanics of shooting. He runs through lessons from his military days, lessons from personal experience, repeating good technique in a mental picture show over and over in his head. Then he thinks about the weapon he's loading, how it behaves in his hands.
If it were after work or on the weekend someone would be in his space chatting to him while he preps, talking about handgun preferences, pros and cons of trigger safeties. Everyone's an expert; everyone's opinionated. He has his own ideas but he tends to keep them to himself. There are people who don't like the fact that he prefers a German-made handgun. He can't deny the attraction of his service weapon, his Glock, with its pull-and-shoot capabilities, but damn, H&K makes a fine firearm, external safety switch and decocking feature notwithstanding. He'll keep it, thank you. It's become a joke between him and Raylan. "Don't want you going around half-cocked," Raylan will say, and Tim will go along with it and reply, "Oh, I beg to differ. You do want me going around half-cocked." Raylan's even used the line when they're in a situation, guns out, a heads-up to be ready to fire. It's starting to get old, especially since Raylan carries his American-made 1911 – Tim has one just like it – as backup with its external safety. Same difference.
Decocking. Gun humor. He's sure he's heard it all. Tara's face interrupts, yelling at him – "You've got nothing but work and your stupid guns." Maybe she's right. But he likes his guns. What does she have? Trendy clothes, and her stupid obsession with Luke Bryan.
When he's done loading he slides his hearing protection around his neck and sets up at the booth. He works to clear his head, sets aside Luke Bryan and Tara and Raylan and anything else that doesn't involve getting these bullets to their destination. He shoots better with a clear head. He thumbs off the safety and lines up and fires five shots, taking time in between to do a quick mental checklist, head to toe, of his body positioning.
The grouping isn't satisfying, not to him, not even close. He sets up again and aims for the head this time and fires off another five in quick succession, then another five fast at the center of mass again. He's emptied the magazine. It's all shit. He can tell without looking.
He sets his gun down on the counter while he waits for the target to come to him, takes a deep breath and flexes his hand, but he's pretty certain it's nothing physical. He can't clear his head. That's what it is. You don't shoot well if you're not focused. There's a room, a chair, a fist, a face, and mixed in with that is pain and humiliation and failing courage, all intruding in this moment, in every moment since. He feels vulnerable and it makes him angry and the anger roils up, fills his thoughts and messes with his head. He can't let it go, so he decides today, looking at the mess he's made of the target, to let it take over. The empty magazine goes onto the counter and a full one slides in. He switches the target and sends it back downrange, aims and lets his anger do the shooting, opens the floodgates and lets it flow unchecked into his arm and on down to his trigger finger. Since he can't clear his head, maybe he'll focus on one thing. Anger. He growls while he fires, unloads all fifteen rounds, splitting them between the head and the torso.
The target makes its way toward him and he releases a huff of disgust when it's close enough to make out for sure where the rounds hit. Two better groupings than he's shot since... "Shit."
"Well, ain't that a pretty sight." The voice comes from behind him, is loud enough to cut through the earmuffs. It's the voice of satisfaction. "Welcome back, Tim."
It's Raylan. It's a predatory smile from Raylan that greets him when he turns.
"I need you for a ride-along," he says, still grinning as he moves his eyes from the target to Tim. "Art told me to take Nelson, but I think you're ready."
Tim's only heard about every second word of the last part but it's enough to get the message. He pulls the earmuffs down around his neck and chews on a lip, looks at the target with the neat two-inch hole chewed through the middle, another through the head, looks back at Raylan then down at his boots, then at the gun in his hand.
"Sure," he says flatly. What the fuck. He's tired of his desk. He pulls a full magazine of work rounds from his pocket, drops the empty one and slides the new one into place.
"I know one of the guys on the investigation," says Raylan.
"The investigation?"
"You know, yours. All that."
They're sitting in the Town Car on a back road outside of Wilmore. Raylan is peering out the windshield watching the house across from them while he talks.
"He called me this morning and asked about you, wanted to see how you were doing."
"Did he tell you anything?"
"No, but he wants to. I don't think it would take much to get him talking."
Tim is watching the house too, but he's not sure what he's looking for. He's not sure what Raylan's getting at either. It doesn't help that the sun is setting and the light is glaring, the scene backlit and shadowed. "What're we doing here?"
"You interested?" says Raylan.
"Yeah, I'm interested."
"I'll see what I can do." Then he's back to the situation at hand. "It's a warrant that came across my desk. I knew the guy." Raylan waves at the house.
"You knew him? How?"
"Went to high school together."
"No shit."
"No shit."
"What's he done?"
"Oh, you know, assault, theft, parole violation."
"Sounds a bit dull for you."
"I was curious to see him again." He opens the car door. "Shall we knock?"
"You know he's here?"
"I have a hunch. It's his mother's place. It's my first stop."
"Assault, you said?"
"With a weapon. He has a habit of shooting people. Never manages to kill them though." Raylan twists and leans over the seat and pulls out two vests from the back, hands one to Tim. "Hate to see you back in the hospital again."
Tim eyes the yard while he slips into the vest. There's an old washing machine listing in the dirt, a broken fence given up and lying defeated in the dust, two cars of indeterminate color except for the predominant rust, an old camper on blocks in the back corner with a faded dollar-store 'For Sale' sign taped in the window. Beyond that is a clothesline, empty and sagging.
His eyes keep drifting back to the camper. "What d'you say I have a look at that camper while you knock?"
"You in the market?"
"Maybe. I'd like to see if it's inhabitable first."
"Inhabited, you mean."
"That too, and it'll give me a good view of the back."
"Alright. Watch out for broken glass."
Tim snorts, and they get out of the car and stand for a moment listening, then they start across the road, Raylan left toward the house, Tim right toward the backyard. They've not gone two steps when the camper door slams open and a man is standing in the opening with a rifle aimed their way. Raylan and Tim draw their weapons, run in opposite directions as one then two rifle shots crack between them and hit the broken asphalt and ricochet. The figure retreats behind the camper in a cloud of dust and cursing.
"Roscoe, don't you go shooting my car."
Raylan is enjoying the action – Tim can hear it in his tone. He's behind one of the rusted heaps, nods when he sees Tim crouched behind a stack of chopped wood. There's a small limestone cliff behind the property. Their fugitive can't run anywhere but left toward the house or right toward Tim and his woodpile.
"Roscoe, I have a warrant for your arrest. Don't make me shoot you at your mother's house."
A voice calls out from behind the trailer. "Who is that?"
"It's Raylan – Raylan Givens."
"Raylan Givens?"
"Remember me?"
"Shit, yeah. You stole my girl in high school."
"That's what you remember?"
"I hated you."
"That was like…twenty-five years ago. I don't even remember which girl."
"Well, I do. What're you doing here and who's that fellow with you?"
"That's my partner, Deputy Gutterson – and I'd rather you not shoot him either. I have a warrant for your arrest. Come on out and let's do this nicely. Is your mama home?"
There's a pause while Roscoe digests everything that Raylan has said and not said. Tim crouches down and watches Roscoe's feet beneath the camper, watches him move to the far left corner. Tim stands and moves quietly around the woodpile and covers the distance to the front of the camper, careful to keep his feet blocked from Roscoe's view by the wood holding up one end. He turns to Raylan and signals that he's going around to the right. Raylan nods and runs closer himself, to the corner of the house, ready to move to the left and cut off Roscoe's escape.
"Raylan Givens?" Roscoe doesn't sound convinced.
"We've established that."
"You're a cop?"
"No, Roscoe, I'm a Federal US Marshal. Where have you been? I thought everyone from Harlan knew that."
"I've been busy."
"Yes, you have. Come on out now before you get hurt. I may not shoot you, being a bit sentimental because of our history, but my partner's not so emotionally encumbered. He is likely to shoot you."
"Did you move?"
"What?"
"You sound closer."
Tim decides it's time to go. He takes four cautious and quiet steps. The next one will put him at the back of the camper. He's leaning forward to see around the corner so misses seeing the small hole in the ground covered in a tuft of long grass. But his right foot doesn't miss it - it drops in at an angle, the knee twists with it and Tim goes down in pain. Roscoe turns at the commotion, jittery, raises his rifle to defend himself and fires wildly. Tim has rolled instinctively and the round from the rifle hits dirt, gives Tim time to get his gun hand up and he fires twice, misses twice. Both bullets hit the camper and carom loudly off the metal and into the surrounding bush. Roscoe turns and runs, straight past Raylan who's come around the other side of the camper, straight into the clothesline, clotheslines himself, feet up over his head, down hard on his back and his rifle goes off. As if the scene weren't slapstick enough the stray round goes through the passenger window of Raylan's Town Car.
"Goddammit!"
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